Ego Boost

Anytime I find myself in too much of a slump, feeling too sorry for unemployed defacto immigrant me, when I really need a lift and that Oprah-WALK-ON moment… I take public transport.

Why? Because if you ever are looking for an ego-boost, it is Public Transport that will put you into contact with the people who give you that in seconds.

It’s because mingling with such people floods you with thoughts of, “I might be in a fkced-up situation, with little forward-motivation. BUT AT LEAST! I am not as screwed up as that guy”!

Like the guy that stands at the shopping mall bus stop to take photos of the buses. My Guy once got caught in a convo with him, stuck in bizarre dialogue about what kind of bus do you think this is? A Honda? No no, maybe a Volvo? What about that one coming up? Ooooo excitement. CLICK. Then the odd guy jumped on the bus and started hounding the bus driver with questions about makes and models, before getting off the bus, and taking another photo.

When I saw this guy, he dashed behind the bus stop, and quickly only his camera snuck out to “CLICK”.

Or the man who declared his undying love to me as I was taking my seat on a bus.
CH: Ha. Thanks very much. Oh look. My book.
TrueLoveMan: Yes. You never know when love is going to arrive but suddenly it does and it could be anywhere here on a bus or somewhere else but here it is and we find it here on a bus because I love you yes you are the love of my life and now we all know in front of all these witnesses that there is such a thing as true love here on this bus because yes I have found it here on this bus with you on this bus here
CH: Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

I find it is weekends that really bring out the “Ego Boosting people”. I am not sure if they are diluted in the week, or if they just realise how much more impact they can make when the trains are less empty.

The heroin family taking up four aisles of seats with their stuff as they dash between bags, babies and sudoku puzzles. And you in the 5th aisle are thinking, surely they can’t move up anymore, before having some cruddy bag shaken onto you for her to retrieve sandwiches for the 5 year old kid that is busy trying to walk through the closing train doors onto a platform. And every other passenger, but these two OD’ing adults, has their eyes popping out of our heads thinking, please please please watch your kid! Ohgod, I actually hope that isn’t your kid and this is a bad choice of babysitter for the day!

There are bus moments when a delightfully sweet old lady climbs on and starts up a sugar-sweet convo with you, only for you to realise she is talking to her neighbour from 1957 and your being just happens to be in the way. You never are too sure if you are meant to respond to yes, how the youth of today are loitering about the milk bar a little too much lately.

Or you tram it through town and suddenly find yourself caught between some stylish Asian chicks and a druggie, with dirt under her nails and picked scabs all around her head. My Guy has retreated to the other side of the tram because he doesn’t want a tetanus shot. And the druggie is waving her rubbish bag of possessions around and tells me, a little too upclose, that these biatches don’t know what they are talking about, why are they are ignoring her, she’ll take them on, oh yeah, she’ll show them. While they try outstare some spot on the tram floor. And I am just doing my best to not laugh at the fkced-up-ness of the situation. Cause a hint of a smile could land one of those nails in my face.

It’s the “dolled-up teen chicks” though, that reaaally bring through that sense of superiority. With comments and conversations so dumb that there is a section of the free daily newspaper dedicated to what they might have said and you overheard; and I LOVE IT!

Chick 1: Like, what I don’t, like, get is why do the people in like France and Russia have to go and make up their own languages. Like why can’t they just stick with English?
Chick 2: Wait, what’s Russia?

And you slap your forehead in pain at what you are hearing, and every other passenger is just doing this slow shake of their head. Except Chick 3, who is thinking, like OhMyGod, why didn’t this quadruplet woman in the newspaper just stop letting them come out after two!

Or some ten year old, all clean-cut, pulled-up socks, pigtails in hair, pink-outfitted, backpack packed with sarmies and orange juice, leaning around her boozed gothic mother, who is just trying to get her alcohol-drenched muscles to keep her standing up, to tell the mom’s boyfriend that he is a “fkcing cunt”.
“Seriously Mom. Why does HEEEEE have to come along today. Can’t the bastard just have stayed on the mattress”.
And the mom slurs something incomprehensible.
And the “Fkcing Cunt” stands in his Doc Martens, faded tats, and straggly hair, just staring ahead.
And I wonder if I should get Child Welfare on speed dial for these delightful Sunday afternoon moments.

The joke is, in that sick unfunny way, that these guys all get free education and health care, welfare cheques and $9000 every time they pop out a baby, while us idiot immigrants babysit their kids, care for their elderly, pack their supermarket shelves, taxi & bus them about, and nurse them through their ODs.

Ah fkc. Now that I got me all depressed in that realisation, let me go and find a bus to travel on or something.